Reflections
by AnimaticGirl
Summary: Currently a oneshot. Takes place after the events of Inkheart. Basta is alone, and his mind turns back to the events that have gone before. DO NOT READ REVIEWS IF YOU HAVE NOT READ INKSPELL, SOMEONE SPOILT IT


**Disclaimer: Basta, Dustfinger, Mortola, Meggie and "Slivertongue" are all characters from Inkheart. All aspects of Inkheart, and all characters involved, are copyright to Cornelia Funke. So bow down to her.**

**A/N- This is my first Inkheart fic, it's never really crossed my mind to write one before. It may be worth noting that from being an idea in my head to being a story on this site actually transpired in under 12 hours…some kind of a record for me. This is intended to be a one-shot of Basta's musings, but I'm not so sure I want to keep it that way. I have some ideas for a full-length Inkheart fic, which I will be writing soon to go along with my Harry Potter "Skeletons" and a Bartimaeus Trilogy one I have in the works. However, I'm not sure if I want to start it under a new title, or continue it from this fic. Basta will be one of the star characters, as he is my very favourite character and has been for a very long time. So please, review and tell me what you think, both of this story and my ideas on whether to continue it or start anew!**

Ani

**Reflections**

It was dark when Basta returned to the small house he had taken over in Capricorn's now-deserted village. He hadn't gone back to his original house. He couldn't. After all that had happened, after the sheer luck he had had in escaping the fate of his comrades, it would be madness to return to his old house - his old ways - and tempt the fates. It was reckless to even come into the village. But he had nowhere else to go.

He could not, however, prevent himself from smirking slightly at the irony: superstition had kept him tethered to the house and now superstition drove him away.

He had taken to night-time walks lately, in the last year or so. For three years after Capricorn's death he had been able to live in denial, to fashion himself new memories, a new life. But now the past was catching up with him. He had been foolish to think he could dodge it forever. Now, insomnia had set in, faces from years ago haunting him every time he closed his eyes. Mortola was there now, too, she had died three years after her beloved son. Basta had not mourned her passing - the three years they had spent solely in one another's company had nearly driven him to distraction. But when she had finally died, insane and screaming, the things she had called out in the dark nights had dredged up many old memories for Basta. It was shortly after that that his nightmares had started.

Gently, so as to make as little sound as possible, Basta opened the door to his home and slipped inside. He locked the door tightly behind him - a habit that had not worn off even after four years of near solitude. No one was going to come to his door, no one was going to come to this dead village ever again.

He sat down and leaned back in is chair. He couldn't help but wonder, as he had done so often in recent months, why he was even here. By rights, he should have disappeared along with Flatnose and the others at Capricorn's defeat, and yet here he was, still around, still contemplating what had happened.

Perhaps he had been right on that night, when he had spewed out a list of possible reasons to that Elinor woman to explain his being there. Maybe it was the fact that he had begun to withdraw from the practices of the Black Jacket's towards the end. Maybe it was the bricks that he had taken from every house they had attacked that had saved him - maybe even that token of respect had adhered him to this world.

Where had the others gone, anyway? Were they dead? Or had they gone back home? After so many years it felt strange to call it that, but the world inside the book was, and always would be, his home. Either way, he felt he envied them. Sometimes, even death was preferable in hindsight to the nightmares.

Basta was lonely. He had not felt so lonely since he had been a child, since before Capricorn had found him. Since that day, he had always had - however poor - a master to follow, to serve, to make him feel he had some use. But then he had been cast into that cage, the cage that still, he sometimes dreamt, enclosed him, and Capricorn had spared him but a disdainful glance before striding away and leaving Basta to his doom.

But as it transpired, it hadn't been Basta's doom. It had been Capricorn's, and he, Basta, had escaped. (Maybe, he pondered, it was this that had spared him, the fact that Capricorn had distanced himself from Basta had given Basta a shot at redemption.) Yet he could not hate Capricorn. For all that the man had done to Basta in the end, he had still saved him as a boy, and he could not resent or hate Capricorn for that. All he felt was a sort of hollow disappointment at how low a place he had had in Capricorn's esteem. He had always admired Capricorn as a father - any, more, for he had hated his own father, as had his master - and it was Capricorn who had taken him away from his childhood loneliness and nightmares.

Basta chuckled dryly as he tipped himself backwards in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. There was irony again- the man that had taken him away from loneliness had also been responsible for sending him back into

it. Nothing ever went right for Basta.

Briefly, he recalled Silvertongue, and his young daughter, who had been the cause of all of this. The girl…what had been her name? Meggie, that was it. She would be sixteen now, and a young woman. Despite himself, half of Basta wanted to see her again, to see how she had turned out.

Did he hate Silvertongue, for bringing him into this world? Did he hate the girl, for killing Capricorn? No, he decided, he did not hate Meggie, for if Capricorn had not perished it would have been he, Basta that had died that night. As for her father…the fool was too soft-hearted to wish harm to a fly, let alone purposefully drag three people - who had no doubt made his world a slight bit worse, and caused devastation and destruction that would otherwise have been escaped - from their world into his, and sacrifice his wife to do so.

Dustfinger.

The name came to Basta seemingly out of nowhere, and, for the first time in four years, he recalled the man he had inwardly cursed as his enemy and rival. They had hated one another for years. Absent-mindedly, Basta fingered the knife that still hung at his belt, remembering the day he had given the fire-eater his scars.

When you were a Black Jacket, your only friends were other Black Jackets. If only Dustfinger had joined as well, as Basta had asked him to, there would have been no need for the events that had come to pass. But it was useless wishing to change the past. He had tried countless times, never truly expecting it to work, but hoping, vainly hoping.

They had been friends once, the two men, Dustfinger and Basta. He had met the street-performer, a year his senior, shortly after joining the Black Jackets from his training as a boy. After a friendship lasting two years, Basta had begged his friend to join with Capricorn. But Dustfinger had refused, saying that he would never allow himself to be manipulated by Capricorn.

So they had drifted apart, eventually leading to a period of three years where they did not see each other at all. When they had finally met up again, their friendship had been utterly destroyed. Thinking back, Basta could not tell if the dramatic changes had occurred in himself, Dustfinger or both of them, but it was certain that upon that meeting Dustfinger had wanted nothing to do with Basta, or Capricorn. Just like everything else in Basta's life that had bourn even the slightest promise of being good, their comradery had come to an abrupt stop.

In place of friendship, a deep hatred between the two had formed. Basta now loathed the street-performer, for his movement, his looks, his mind, even in the things Basta excelled in and Dustfinger did not, Basta hated him for them. It was a furious kind of hate, more striking out in revenge than anything else, and yet with every day that had passed they had found new reasons to back up their enmity. It had not exactly helped when they had shifted worlds, and Dustfinger had worked his way into Capricorn's favour.

Irony, yet again! It was he, Basta, who had sought so hard for Capricorn's approval, and yet, at every turn in this new world, it was Dustfinger, who cared nothing for Capricorn, who gained it all.

Settling back in his chair, Basta wondered if he'd ever stop hating Dustfinger. As things stood, right now, did he want revenge? Dustfinger, after all, had been responsible for Basta's imprisonment, and nearly for Basta's death. But, he decided, for now he did not want to wreak revenge against the fire-eater. Despite his hatred for Dustfinger, which he felt may last forever, Basta felt an understanding with the man. Both were trapped here, alone, strangers in a world that was not their own, and that was punishment enough.


End file.
